forth and up and down (if it still worked, that was). More power to you, to coin a crappy little pun. There was air conditioning (that certainly wouldn't work), and cruise control, and a big pushbutton radio with lots of chrome - AM only, of course. In 1958, FM was mostly a blank wasteland.
I put my hands on the wheel and something happened.
Even now, after much thought, I'm not sure exactly what it was. A vision, maybe - but if it was, it sure wasn't any big deal. It was just that for a moment the torn upholstery seemed to be gone. The seat covers were whole and smelling pleasantly of vinyl . . . or maybe that smell was real leather. The worn places were gone from the steering wheel; the chrome winked pleasantly in the summer evening light falling through the garage door.
Let's go for a ride, big guy, Christine seemed to whisper in the hot summer silence of LeBay's garage. Let's cruise.
And for just a moment it seemed that everything changed. That ugly snarl of cracks in the windscreen was gone - or seemed to be. The little swatch of LeBay's lawn that I could see was not yellowed, balding, and crabgrassy but a dark, rich, newly cut green. The sidewalk beyond it was freshly cemented, not a crack in sight. I saw (or thought I did, or dreamed I did) a '57 Cadillac motor by out front. That GM high-stepper was a dark minty green, not a speck of rust on her, big gangster whitewall tyres, and hubcaps as deeply reflective as mirrors. A Cadillac the size of a boat, and why not? Gas was almost as cheap as tap-water.
Let's go for a ride, big guy . . . let's cruise.
Sure, why not? I could pull out and turn toward downtown, toward the old high school that was still standing - it wouldn't burn down for another six years, not until 1964 and I could turn on the radio and catch Chuck Berry singing 'Maybeliene' or the Everlys doing 'Wake Up Little Susie' or maybe Robin Luke wailing 'Susie Darling.' And then I'd . . .
And then I got out of that car just about as fast as I could. The door opened with a rusty, hellish screech, and I cracked my elbow good on one of the garage walls. I pushed the door shut (I didn't really even want to touch it, to tell you the truth) and then just stood there looking at the Plymouth which, barring a miracle, would soon be my friend Arnie's. I rubbed my bruised crazybone. My heart was beating too fast.
Nothing. No new chrome, no new upholstery. On the other hand, plenty of dents and rust, one headlamp missing (I hadn't noticed that the day before), the radio aerial crazily askew. And that dusty, dirty smell of age.
I decided right then that I didn't like my friend Arnie's car.
I walked out of the garage, glancing back constantly over my shoulder - I don't know why, but I didn't like it behind my back. I know how stupid that must sound, but it was how I felt. And there it sat with its dented, rusty grille, nothing sinister or even strange, just a very old Plymouth automobile with an inspection sticker that had gone invalid on June 1, 1976 - a long time ago.
Arnie and LeBay were coming out of the house. Arnie had a white slip of paper in his hand - his bill of sale, I assumed. LeBay's hands were empty; he had already made the money disappear.
'Hope you enjoy her,' LeBay was saying, and for some reason I thought of a very old pimp huckstering a very young boy. I felt a surge of real disgust for him - him with his psoriasis of the skull and his sweaty back brace. 'I think you will. In time.'
His slightly rheumy eyes found mine, held there for a second, and then slipped back to Arnie.
'In time,' he repeated.
'Yessir, I'm sure I will,' Arnie said absently He moved toward the garage like a sleepwalker and stood looking at his car.
'Keys are in her,' LeBay said. 'I'll have to have you take her along. You understand that, don't you?'
'Will she start?'
'Started for me yesterday evenin,' LeBay said, but his eyes shifted away toward the horizon. And then, in the tone of one who has washed his hands of the whole thing: 'Your friend here will have a set of jumpers in